


Seascapes

by Lsusanna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Humor, In Which feanor is short and vengeful., Nerdanel is the team's overworked ceo, Poker, Valinor, anaire bras are private geez, besides she'd give the card shark a run for her money, circa then, fingolfin stop foreshadowing, himself. he's himself, if you're wondering who's missing it's findis who is too smart to come to these things., lalwen jogs off her hangovers it's Fact, long weekends @ beachhouses, the telerin royal famiy is all card sharks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 19:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10497849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lsusanna/pseuds/Lsusanna
Summary: Fëanáro’s cry is cut short by the slate-grey ocean closing over his head.“The harpers will sing of this moment,” says Nolofinwë, gazing forlornly over the side of the boardwalk. “It shall be immortalized—the moment Nolofinwë Aracáno’s fate was sealed. O glory! O honor!"“How much—” says Eärwen, gazing out at the beach— “do you think they’ve had to drink?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I proofread this watching the news, please forgive any errors. I'm erotetica on tumblr if you want to say hi. Thanks for reading!

Fëanáro’s cry is cut short by the slate-grey ocean closing over his head.

“The harpers will sing of this moment,” says Nolofinwë, gazing forlornly over the side of the boardwalk. “It shall be immortalized—the moment Nolofinwë Aracáno’s fate was sealed. Death to the second son of Finwë! O glory! O honor!” He continues down the wooden planks, his stroll having none of the orator’s gravity present in his voice. “Kiss me, darling, for soon by fate’s decree and brother’s ire we shall be parted.”

“I regret,” states Arafinwë, following his brother. Fëanáro surfaces behind them with something between a gasp, whine, and battle cry—the latter not counting as a threat until he finds his way back onto the pier.

“Anything requiring specificity?” Nolofinwë asks brightly, leaning too far back and overbalancing.

“My proximity to you.”

“Why Ingoldo, that was rude!” exclaims Nolofinwë, delighted.

 

******

 

“How much—” Eärwen cocks her head to one side as she gazes out at the beach, transfixed— “do you think they’ve had to drink?” Through the window, Fëanáro launches himself at Nolofinwë. He stumbles valiantly, his elder clinging atop his shoulders like a particularly stubborn bad habit, teeters precariously—and falls. Arafinwë holds two planks of driftwood above his head in what looks like an approximation of a scoring system.

“I suppose enough that Vána will be scouting them for her train come the morning,” says Anairë, reordering her cards. “Or that one of us will be holding back someone’s hair— _oh_! I’ve an ass!”

“Ace,” corrects Eärwen, confiscating Anairë’s glass by pouring its contents into her own. “And we may end up holding back each other’s.”

“But which of us—we should place bets on _that_.” says Nerdanel. “And we aren’t supposed to tell each other which cards we have.” That correction falls to her, because Eärwen, with all the tongue-in-cheek shamelessness she siphoned off Olwë, has been taking advantage of Anairë’s poker virginity and Nerdanel’s lack of practice all evening. The first evening in a long weekend of them.

The original intent had been to give Nerdanel time to work on a lovely cut of marble, perhaps the only reason Fëanáro had agreed to go while conscious and not concussed, but her sisters-in-law had pounced on the circles under her eyes as evidence that she didn’t need time to work, but play. To their credit, Fëanáro only accused her of bamboozlement twice, Nolofinwë only offered pity for his being swindled once, and Arafinwë hummed a not overtly, but inexorably grating tune into a ringing silence for only five minutes.

Outside, Nolofinwë’s replaced the shirt Fëanáro took from him to make up for the loss of his own—a lateral move, it being more water than wool—with a lot of sand. Arafinwë is sitting in the sand and pointing, presumably trying to give advice, presumably on how Fëanáro can drag Nolofinwë into the surf in penance, since he clearly weighs too much to be pulled by the foot. The latter seems to be tolerating the manhandling with good humor. He might be asleep.

“Eärwen.”

“Yes, Nerdanel?” Eärwen replies pleasantly.

“What is in your sleeve.”

“I don’t know what you mean—“

“Eärwen _I can see the card_ —”

“I don’t know how that got there,” Eärwen says, wrapping herself in a shroud of dignity.

Anairë makes a disappointed noise. “This is the second time you’ve cheated tonight, we had to change games and everything.” Neither point is inaccurate, though they mostly changed games because Lalwen was the only one who had an interest in playing dealer and she fell asleep under the table.

“Counting cards does not count! It isn’t cheating if it’s mathematics!”

“Or magnetism, or syllogism, or pheromones…” Nerdanel mutters into her cup with the air of someone who has been somewhere similar many times.

“If it didn’t count it would be allowed!” Anairë insists.

“ _If the game is informal,_ ” begins Eärwen, and then, “they’ve built a lever.”

“Stop trying to change the subject—oh. Well would you look at that,” Anairë says, leaning back in her chair. One would think _she_ would be the one to give the situation gravity, seeing as it’s her narcoleptic husband being pulled into the shallows by a rope around the ankle, and Eärwen’s is still sitting unhelpfully on the ground in the seaweed crown he’s fashioned for himself. To be fair to her, Nerdanel reasons, she isn’t desensitized—to quote her third son, Arafinwë is the litter’s sanest.

Nerdanel steals the last of the decanter and decides the puddle on the beach is the problem of Lalwen upon her morning run, as Anairë shells playing cards at Eärwen aggressively, after finding another hidden down the front of her corset, and Fëanáro aims a sodden, overlarge sleeve at Arafinwë’s head. He succeeds in clouting him about the shoulder, the sleeve sticking there anticlimactically. They’re stranded on a sandbank now, having gone out to save Nolofinwë from floating away.

The genius’s fault—the lever should have been longer.

 

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Are Finwe and Olwe watching their grandchildren? Yes. Does someone die? Well canonically they all die,


End file.
